


can't breathe in this flood (of emotion)

by ruluan



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, kind of, tacked on happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:49:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruluan/pseuds/ruluan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a partnership of sorts, until it became a weird friendship. And then it became a solid friendship despite their different views and it stayed that way. And then Arthur said 'I'm in love with you' and it became something else. It became something Eames didn't want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't breathe in this flood (of emotion)

**Author's Note:**

> This was for [Inception kink meme](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/11005.html?thread=22122493#t22122493) like 2 years ago hahahahaha I don't want to talk about it I'm just tired of my ao3 account being empty
> 
> I blame my youth for all of the ridiculousness, italics, and excessive commas. Not beta'd because I have no friends

_No_ , Eames thinks. Then, _what_ , then _no_.

No. He’d never thought he’d ever hear those words fall from Arthur’s lips.

_I’m in love with you._

No, this cannot be happening to him. His mind reels, he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, and he’s pretty sure his mouth is gaping wide open. Arthur looks at him, and it’s not the masked hurt that hits Eames in the chest, it’s the complete and utter lack of surprise. It occurs to him that Arthur’s probably thought about this before, of how Eames would react to this, and –

“How long?” He manages to choke out. The most important question. Oh God, was it from the beginning? Has everything Arthur’s ever done for him been influenced by this, this – he doesn’t know what to call it. Infatuation? A silly crush? _Lo_ \-- ?

Luckily, Arthur interrupts his thoughts. Unluckily, he says, “Um. Maybe two years now?”

Oh, _God_. How long have they known each other now? Five years? Two out of five. _Two out of five_. Okay, okay. He can deal with this. Two years. Two–-fuck. He flashes back to everything he’s ever done with Arthur, movies, long talks over coffee, even longer and even more revealing deep conversations in the middle of the night when neither of them knows how to actually sleep, perverted-- _fuck_. He can’t distinguish what a friend would do with what someone with a ridiculous crush–-because that’s what it was, right? It couldn’t be anything more, _couldn’t_ \--would do, and–-

He stands abruptly, says shortly, “Excuse me,” attempts to walk by Arthur, but Arthur makes a grab for his arm. “Don’t,” Eames warns, “Just give me some space. Please.”

He spends the next two, three, four, five hours locked in his apartment, drinking shitty alcohol and wondering how the fuck this could happen to him.

But he knows.

He let Arthur in. He really didn’t mean to, in the beginning. It just happened. They’d been normal colleagues, capable of holding a conversation if it was just about work, but then, that one job, where they’d somehow managed to fail epically, and all they could say to each other afterwards was, _I’m sorry_ , and _it was my fault_ , until they just look at each other and burst out laughing. Then came the coffee dates–-no wait, he shouldn’t call them that. They started off as just buying coffee for each other every morning. Then it progressed to going to the coffee shop together, sitting down, and having a long chat about anything, everything, nothing.

He has a brief mental freak-out over how much about him Arthur knows, how _close_ they’ve gotten, how they always did jobs together, and how his life practically seems to revolve around Arthur. Arthur; he doesn’t know anymore what to think of him.

Two fucking years. Who knew how much Eames could have led Arthur on in those two years? He tries to think back to any moment of time where Arthur seemed hesitant, affectionate, distant, awkard--any signs of this, this-- _thing_.

Wait–-last year, Eames’ birthday. Arthur had given him a Simon Spurr suit that Eames honestly thought was a joke until he looked it up online, and $3,000, really? He remembers puzzling over why the fuck Arthur would spend such a shit-ton of money on him before chalking it off to recently being paid. Now that he thinks about it, doesn’t it seem like something a little too extravagant for a colleague? No, _no_ , for sure he’s just imagining things.

God no, this isn’t happening to him, he isn’t overanalyzing every little action Arthur’s ever done, every little word that Arthur’s ever spoken. Who cares that Arthur seems to gravitate towards Eames, that his biting comments are said with a smile that maybe sort of implies _I love you_ , that-–

But Eames can’t help it. He can’t help but feel a little paranoid about all of the times Arthur has ever worried for him, for his life, for his well-being. At the time he’d thought it was sweet of him to care, and he almost felt like they were brothers, but he really doesn’t know how to deal with it when it’s the result of one four letter word that he can never think of in the same way again.

Jesus. He glances at the clock, can barely even register that he’s been sitting in that same chair, staring vacantly at his wall, for five hours, and he _still_ can’t figure out how to face going to the warehouse to work with him. He contemplates not even going, but feels unprofessional and cowardly, and though he _is_ being such a huge coward, dammit, he’s not going to let it show.

So, he stands, doesn’t bother changing out of yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, and walks out the door.

\--

Eames has barely taken a step into the warehouse before Ariadne ambushes him, dragging him off into an isolated area and hissing, “What’s wrong with you? You look like shit.” She looks him up and down, then grimaces. “Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday? You stink. Anyway,” She continues, “Arthur walked in maybe 10 minutes ago, and he keeps staring at your desk like he’s not expecting you to show. Which obviously means you did something to upset him.”

“Uh,” Eames says. “I think that implies that he did something to upset me. Which. I’d rather not think about right now, please and thank you.”

He runs a hand over his face. Ariadne pauses. “He confessed, didn’t he.”

He stares at her. “How did you know?”

“Please,” she looks at him incredulously, “Anyone with eyes can see he’s head over heels in love with you. And that you remain completely oblivious. But yeah, I take it from your appearance that it didn’t go so well.”

Eames shakes his head, “It just kind of shocked and terrified me. No, correction, shocks and terrifies me.”

“It’s just,” Ariadne tries to get him to look her in the eyes, fails, gives up, and proceeds, “Don’t you know what it’s like? To open up to someone only to be rejected? It’s painful, it really is. Like someone’s ripped your heart out, smashed it to pieces, and put it back again. And I can tell, you’re confused out of your mind right now, but I’m just letting you know, that’s what you’re currently doing to Arthur. So you’ve got to decide, as soon as possible. You’ve got to decide whether to embrace or reject his feelings for you.”

“It’s not,” Eames starts, then stops. Starts over, “I’m sure. I’m 500% sure that my feelings for Arthur are so, so platonic.”

“No, no you’re not.” Ariadne walks away.

Eames is indignant. Ariadne is not even 25. What does she know about his feelings for Arthur? He frowns, walks to his desk, tries to avoid looking at Arthur, fails. It’s just a glance, less than a second, but what he sees squeezes his heart painfully. Arthur, who just yesterday, just 24 hours ago, had smiled at him and said, “Good morning, Mr. Eames,” is now averting his gaze and biting his lip, silent. Eames manages to catch Arthur’s eye for a fraction of a moment, but wishes he hadn’t. The hopelessness on his face is so overwhelming.

For a minute, Eames honestly thinks Arthur’s guilt-tripping him. He’s capable of being a manipulative bitch, that’s for sure. But the truth is inevitable; Eames has truly and deeply hurt Arthur, and fuck not having romantic feelings for him, they’re friends, goddammit, and Eames still cares about him. He knows, if it was anyone else who’d put that look on Arthur’s face, he’d want to punch their lights out.

But he can’t very well punch his own lights out.

So instead, he spends the rest of the day hyperaware of Arthur’s every move, every sigh, every word, all the while pondering Ariadne’s words. He’s sure he’s never thought of kissing Arthur before, of holding his hand or–-yeah. And he knows he loves Arthur, there’s no doubt about that. But there’s a huge difference between being in love and just loving someone.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been in love.

\--

He blames what happens next on Ariadne. It is completely and utterly her fault.

If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have thought about possibly maybe having feelings of the romantic variety for Arthur, and he wouldn’t have thought about what it would be like, maybe, just to touch Arthur, to kiss him, and he wouldn’t have become so obsessed with the thought, so consumed and overwhelmed by it, that, when he next walks by Arthur in the warehouse, he reaches out and lightly brushes his fingers against the fabric of his suit jacket.

And right when Eames catches himself, snatches his hand away, thinks that Arthur couldn’t possibly have felt that slight touch through his ridiculous amount of layers, Arthur turns, startled, and gives him a look of confusion, and maybe a little hope. And it’s the hope that drags Eames in, that causes him to reach out again, slowly, and pull his fingers along Arthur’s cheek. But it’s the hope, again, growing, that causes him to pull back, quickly, as if burned. He strides quickly to the bathroom to avoid the guilt he knows he’ll feel if he sees that look, as if he’d just crushed a puppy, in Arthur’s eyes.

What the bleeding fuck is he thinking? He splashes his face with water and glares at his reflection. He’s sure, he’s so sure–-okay, he _was_ sure that he was definitely not in love with Arthur. And the thing is, he tells himself he’s sure (he’s not, he’s _not_ ), but then his thoughts can’t help but feel like he’s making a choice between keeping Arthur or letting him go, and he can’t–-after all of these years, he’s come to need Arthur in his life. He needs to see him everyday, to see his dimples, to hear his laugh, to just feel the warmth and life emanating from his body, his being. It occurs to him that he might just stop breathing at the mere thought of a month, a week, a _day_ without Arthur there.

And that’s when it hits him. Oh. Maybe. Maybe he really is–-just a little bit, a really little bit–-in love.

Because being in love, in his case, Eames realizes, is like drowning. It’s not a choice, a conscious effort, it’s simply being so overcome by mere _feelings_ that he can’t fight it the tide. So he should just let go, succumb to the torrid waters that tug him down.

He straightens his collar, walks out of the bathroom, approaches Arthur, who is studiously ignoring him. Eames grasps his chin, looks at him, really looks into his eyes, and thinks the root of love that has, not ten seconds ago, just sprung into being _in love_ , could grow. It could grow into an aged oak, or a pine tree, or a–-

Eames smiles. Whatever it’ll become, he knows it’ll be good, strong. He pulls Arthur forward, smile morphing into a grin as their lips meet in an imperfectly sloppy, unaligned, chaste, but extremely, ridiculously _hopeful_ kiss.

His lungs flood with water as he lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> OMG SIMON SPURR THAT WAS MY GQ PHASE
> 
> I feel really embarrassed but it's okay bc no one will ever read this


End file.
